


Rewind

by besame_bj



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon, Drama, Episode Related, No Slash, Romance, Season/Series 03, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-24
Updated: 2006-03-24
Packaged: 2018-12-26 22:36:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12068349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besame_bj/pseuds/besame_bj
Summary: After their initial reconciliation at Vanguard, Brian, and Justin return to the loft. Once they get there, though, Brian’s worried: I see Justin stop, just standing there like he’s fucking never seen the place before. Hell, is he going to go off on me? I’d hoped it wouldn’t happen for a few hours, a few decades maybe, but despite his fabulous speech to me earlier, I know it’s inevitable.





	Rewind

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

**Part 1: Musing**

I fold my hands together in my lap, one thumb crossed over the other, staring at them in fascination as we drive from Vanguard back to Brian’s place. First time in the ‘Vette for me, and, wow, talk about a fuck-mobile. A very cool car, one that suits Brian. I’ve always wondered why he preferred the Jeep although, yeah, maybe I miss it a little. We had some good times in that car. I sigh, although I take care that it comes out more like a simple exhale. Not so much emotion that way, which is something I plan to stay away from permanently. But the truth is, God, I feel great! I’m trying not to smile, not to look like the goofy kid who’s just been fucked on Brian’s desk, but, shit, I’m kidding no one, especially myself. Amazing, that’s what it’d been, and, damn, _I’m_ the one who initiated the whole fucking thing. 

I still can’t believe how easy it was, how Brian didn’t blister the air with sarcastic comebacks or give me that poison-laced smile, the one that says you’re-an-idiot-but-I’ll-overlook-it, when I made my little speech. You know, the one I practiced in front of a mirror until I could say it without stumbling over the words? But, hell, it turned out that Brian had been another person altogether during my recitation, Twilight Zone-Brian, quiet, soft-spoken, falling right in step when the game plan was announced. I mean, I wanted to say, “What have you done with Brian and would you please return him to me?” It was eerie. Yet, somehow, I did it. I made an extremely ballsy statement and lived to talk about it. _I decided you ought to take me back._ Me. I said that. Wow, I think I rock. 

Shit, Brian had even carried that amenable attitude to the moment we went from former to current lovers, sitting there on the edge of the desk, arms crossed, looking down at me, so fucking close and so fucking hot. Hell, I thought I’d lose it, all the cool I’d brought with me to face the big, bad wolf oozing onto the floor in a big puddle of unfulfilled desire. But, shit, no. I wasn’t about to come that far and then just give up, not when Brian’s hazel eyes were fixed on me like that, those luscious lips in a half-smile, that body so very close. I might’ve been shaking a little when I got up to shut the door, but fuck, that was lust, enough lust to power a nuclear reactor.

The car turns onto Tremont and I realize we’re almost home. Well, not home, not for me anymore. Shit, what an idiot I was, what a complete and total idiot. Brian should’ve called me that—it would’ve been true—he should’ve given me the full blown lecture too, the one about treasuring what you’ve got while you’ve got it, the grass-is-greener thing being such a bogus idea, the I-saved-your-fucking-life-you-ungrateful-little-twat thing, all of it. Yes, I’d made the biggest fucking mistake of my sorry, pathetic life and now I have to work extra hard to make it right. Not that Brian would ever let me move back into the loft. Hell, no. Shit, I’d never ask. Right now, I’m just grateful that we’re together, that we fucked so hard on Brian’s desk that all the folders, papers, pens, and a paperweight hit the floor, that I had paperclips stuck to my ass by the time we’d finished. For right now, that has to be enough. Let’s keep that in mind—it’s all about fucking. Which is just fine by me. Really.

“Did you learn this Zen-like silence from anyone in particular?” Brian asks as he pulls the car up to the curb. He slants an eyebrow my way.

I smile, looking up under my eyelashes, rattled by my own chastising thoughts. “Sorry.”

Brian leans close, his lips inches away, warm breath bathing my face, a classic posture designed to make me crazy. And it does, of course it does. Brian smiles, then his lips brush mine, barely touching, as he runs a hand down my leg and rubs me. More craziness. “Upstairs,” he says in that throaty whisper and his tongue flicks out, licking my mouth.

**Part 2: Acting**

Once we’re in the loft, I see Justin stop, just standing there like he’s fucking never seen the place before. Hell, is he going to go off on me? I’d hoped it wouldn’t happen for a few hours, a few decades maybe, but despite his fabulous speech to me earlier, I know it’s inevitable. Not the love thing, fuck, no. He’ll be keeping that one on the top shelf, I’m sure about that. No, the one I’m waiting for is the sorry speech, the I-fucked-up one, the I-regret-so-much-what-I-did, the kind that makes the air reek with enough Lesbianic psychobabble to wilt my dick.

I slam the loft door and head for the refrigerator. Beer, we need beer. Better get him drunk, the sooner the better. Between that and keeping his mouth occupied, which I know I can do, I stand a good chance of fulfilling my own personal goals for the night, the ones I’ve meticulously formulated on the way home: get him naked, fuck him on the floor, fuck him on the couch, fuck him on the chaise, on the bed, in the shower. They seem like such worthwhile goals too, ones that benefit us both. Why does he want to fuck up the night by talking about the past? 

Yet, as he joins me at the kitchen island and accepts the beer, I can see it in his eyes. The kid thinks he’s “mature” now, that he can keep that far out promise he made back at the office. Won’t be asking for a thing, boss, hell, no, not me. Just fuck buddies, that’s you and me, Bri. He must fucking think I left my good sense in my other pair of pants. Can Justin Taylor, beautiful blond twink par excellence, holder of the sacred, oh-so-kissable lips and the sacred, oh-so-fuckable ass, amazing artist, fascinating human being, bright kid, can that person separate fucking from emotions? Uh, is the pope Catholic? Is Mikey going to whine at me about this? Will the sun shine tomorrow?

I take a long sip of beer and can read him like the screen on my computer. He regrets what he’s done and he wants to make a speech. Words sound lovely coming out of that perfect mouth, but I have plans and I don’t need platitudes. Besides, I know already how he feels. He told me back at Vanguard, on my desk, when he arched his back as he reached for me, whimpering my name. ‘Nuff said, Sunshine. We can move on. When will he learn? Okay, okay, _young_ , he’s still young. Keep forgetting. Nineteen is young. A college kid. I was pretty damn raw myself at that age. But nowadays, we don’t talk about shit like that and he knows it. Somehow, though, I can see that puppy dog look in his eyes: it has to be done and _right now_ or he’ll implode.

Then I have an idea. 

Fuck, I’m a genius.

I’ll hit rewind.

I tip up my beer and take a long swallow. “Drink up,” I say, all business.

“Okay.” He looks at me, a little startled because I’ve interrupted his little planning session for the Big Speech. Taking another gulp of beer, he sets it aside and eyes me expectantly. He’s gonna be a good boy tonight and let me take the lead. Yes, sir, Mr. Kinney, what’s your pleasure? Not gonna have any trouble from me, no, sir, no way.

I straighten, facing him, dead serious. “Want to take a shower?”

This is not what he expects. “Uh, okay.” He speaks with caution, still not sure what I’m up to but fuck, the kid knows me, he knows I’m up to something.

I nod, but then take him by the hand and lead him out into the middle of the floor, away from the bathroom. I face him and look deep into his eyes. I make sure he’s paying attention, but fuck, by now, he’s deer-in-the-headlights, deep blue eyes opened wide as he stares at me. I quirk one eyebrow and speak to him, softly, quietly. “Justin? I like the smell of _you_ , not soap.”

I see immediate confusion. He recognizes the words, but can’t place them. He opens his mouth to question me, but I’m quicker. I lean forward and take a delicate sniff, inhaling the delicious scent of us on his skin: spit, sweat, cum, aftershave, his complex Justin-smell—apples, newsprint, pine, acrylic paint, honey, who the hell knows what else—along with my more pungent aroma. Staring at him intently, I run my fingers through his hair, sniff again then let my thumb slide down his cheek.

“Brian.” He breathes my name, eyes wide, still unsure what I’m doing.

I pull him close, a soft growl in my throat as I slip my hand behind his neck. My mouth covers his, firm and gentle, but bit-by-bit I press closer, my tongue parting his soft lips as I deepen the kiss. I hold him tighter, swinging him with tender steps as I firm up the grip, sucking on his upper lip with great pleasure.

A soft moan escapes him and his hand tangles in my hair, his head thrown back as I kiss down his throat. I swing us again and his arm flies out at the unexpected movement. I clamp my lips atop his, sucking on his tongue, growling, tasting the beer as I slip my hand up under his shirt, my fingers gliding over his silken skin.

He’s breathing hard, eyes glazing over and—fuck, yes—he’s forgotten all about his little speech. I work on his mouth another moment, turning him in this dance we’re doing and maneuver us to the exact spot.

For just a heartbeat, I ease back enough to pull off his shirt, glued against him an instant later, his arms wrapping around me as if he fears he’ll otherwise lose me. I bend my knees and press close so my cock pushes against his, feeling the swollen length of him, wondering once again as I always wonder why a little fucker like him has such a big dick. Not that I mind. God knows, I don’t mind.

With a little sideways shift, we move to the precise location where I’d let my anger take over back then, where I’d fucking attacked him. The minute we do, I drop us down on our knees face-to-face. Justin’s eyes fly open and I see instant recognition jolt him out of his sexual fog. “Brian!” A look of painful amazement transforms his face. “You’re—”

“—hitting rewind.” I push on him, flattening him to the ground, not giving him a chance to go gushy, lying on top of him as I give him my customized Brian Kinney mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, the kind designed to revive just about anyone. I stroke him over his jeans as I apply this technique, quickly bringing him to the place where he’s wriggling and panting and groaning in a manner I find quite pleasing.

I back off, staring down at him. “You like that?”

A grin throws askew the please-fuck-me look that’s softened his face. “Rewind, hmmm, rewind…” He’s so befuddled, he doesn’t know what to do, what to say, where to go, how to behave. Good. I’m doing my job when I can get him like this. He reaches for my pants, but I take his hands, kiss each one, and set them back at his sides. Another foolish smile radiates from him and he mumbles nonsense that makes me laugh. I undo his jeans and pull them free, exposing his fully engaged cock, which is leaking already. As I strip off my own clothes, I give him another long look, talking without talking, but then, shit, okay, I’ll give him a few words, just to keep the kid happy. I lean over him, breathing onto his face. “I’m not stopping this time, Sunshine.”

He gasps, eyes rolling back in his head, and I think for a moment he’s going to shoot without me even touching him. As I settle back onto him, our cocks bobbing together, he opens his eyes and I see the tears there. Fuck. None of that, Justin. Come on. We don’t do sentimentality, remember? 

**Part 3: Reacting**

Oh-God-Oh-God-Oh-God. We’re back there, back to that night, that terrible night when it all fell apart and I didn’t know what to do, how to fix it, how to get out of it or change it or make it something different, and everything I did was wrong, and I just fucked it all up so bad. When he left me lying half naked on his floor that night, I wanted to fucking die, my dick so hard I thought I’d burst a blood vessel, covered in spit, still wearing the marks he’d left on me, still feeling the desire he’d stirred to a boiling point before slamming it down almost as hard as he’d slammed me. I felt like slime then, shit, garbage, the whore he’d discarded in distaste, too tainted to even fuck. I remember stumbling into the shower and never wanting to come out again, sitting in the bathroom with a towel stuffed in my mouth so he couldn’t hear me cry. Fucked up, bruised, beaten, hating myself, hating him for fucking telling me the truth that way, for being so brutal, for doing nothing, for doing everything. 

Now we’re here again, in the exact same place doing the same things except this time it’s okay, he’s made it right although I’m not sure how and I sure as hell don’t know why. He’s healing the hurt in a way that makes me love him even more, but I can’t say that, can’t say anything, just have to go with the flow, let him do his thing, keep my mouth shut because if I talk now, I know I’ll ruin everything. _I know what you want from me._ Those were my words. That’s what I have to live by. But it feels so good, so damn good, like I know for sure he’d forgiven me, like he’s washing away the pain, baptizing us in a newness that’s amazing. How’d he do that? And why? God, I love him. What the fuck was I thinking wanting someone else? Was I insane? Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Lost in my thoughts, I dimly realize he’s rolled me onto my side and has positioned himself behind me, the length of his hard-muscled body pressed against mine. I hear the tear of a condom wrapper, and then he leans close to my ear, nipping on my ear lobe, kissing my neck, making his way to my mouth for another long, intense kiss before he speaks. “Justin?” he breathes at my ear as his cock presses against me from behind. “You want me inside you?” 

I tremble at the words, a fresh shock shuddering through me. God, he’s doing it again, he’s moving back farther in the rewind, taking us to the first moment we fucked after the bashing. What a long, hard trek that had been, a trek that eventually brought me to a moment I’d never forget. God, how loved I felt that night, how cherished, how even Brian, all macho hardness and unyielding reserve, couldn’t help but be tender with me, couldn’t help but show affection when he knew I was hanging onto the edge of my sanity, ready to tumble headlong into my craziness at the slightest push. “Brian—” I start to say, but his mouth is atop mine in an instant. 

He sucks on my lips, chin, neck until I think I’ll scream. Then he eases off and makes his way back to my ear, his voice the softest of whispers. “Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle.”

With a disjointed whimper, I reach for him, my hand on his thigh as he enters me. I pull him closer, wanting him, all of him, inside me, knowing it’s all I need, all I’ve ever needed, wondering why I thought it wasn’t enough. I feel the pressure as he hits the first ring of muscle, hear the latex protest, and he pauses, as he always does, kissing my neck, my cheek, my lips, his fingers laced in mine as he waits, murmuring sounds coming from deep within his throat, sounds I know no one else ever hears. He pushes forward as I move back to receive him, and that’s it, that’s what I want, that’s what I need, that fills me and makes me scream, that’s all there is in my world, all there needs to be.

I turn my head for a long kiss as his hand snakes around and he begins to stroke me. The room is silent, the only sounds our labored breathing, the slap of our sweaty bodies against one another, our moans. We rock together as he holds me tightly, and it doesn’t take long, we’re already too far gone, and soon I ride an overwhelmingly sweet wave with him, one that crashes through me again and again as he holds me tight. 

**Part 4: Confessing**

As I collapse on Justin, breathing hard, that intensely pleasurable throb still burning through me like liquid fire, I keep him close, kissing his shoulder, my hand tangled in his hair, somehow not wanting to separate us. Fuck, I did something, I know I did. Because it feels different. _We_ feel different. More like we used to be back then when my focus was simpler, when all I knew was that I had to look out for him, help him get well, that I cared about him even if I fucking wouldn’t admit it. Had to admit it, forced to admit it, at least to his mother, although, fuck, even that took a sharp kick in the balls. I did care though and I wasn’t above showing it. Not the whole hearts and flowers bullshit—hell, no. But little things. Like holding him in the night when he had a nightmare. Like making sure he took his meds. Like walking with him, hand-in-hand. Now, somehow, we’re re-living the night of Gus’s birthday. Like the fucking movie, _Time Machine_ , we did it, we went back there. 

Because I hit rewind.

And I have to admit it.

It’s good.

It’s very good.


End file.
